Interpreting the Question
by thechampionsmistress
Summary: Constance and I exchange a glance: she knows that I know that she is well aware of my intentions. Though, I suppose when it comes to Maura and how I feel about her, I've always been transparent. Why else would I ask for her personal invitation to a party I had no business attending?


Author's Note: I felt like writing them again and wanted something happy so this is what happened. Nothing too serious, just a bit of fun.

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_Disclaimer: I own nothing but the order of the words_

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There are few things I hate more than Modern Art Galas. Actually, that's a lie. There's only one thing I hate more: the god-awful, itchy, wedgie-inducing dresses that are the only commonality between Maura's expectations and my pride. But there I stood, fighting a losing battle: pulling the bottom of my dress down, the top back up, a bra adjustment here and there, utterly miserable and completely uncomfortable.

Why? Because of Maura. Because for the past year and a half I have been in a relationship that is daily proof that I in no way deserve her. No one does. She deserves what she was accustomed to: fine wine, dinner at restaurants where appetizers cost more than I make in a week, and gifts that are never worthy of her, but she accepts them graciously because that's just who she is—perfection wrapped in humble humanity.

Thankfully, a man, dressed nicer than I am, walks by offering me a drink, which I accept all too eagerly because there is no way I am getting through the night without it. Taking a gulp, I catch sight of Constance Isles across the room. Of course I'm inhaling alcohol like it's an oasis in the Sahara. Of course I am.

She smiles. I nod and raise my glass. I still think she's far too impressive and almost too put together, but the fact that she is arm in arm with Maura humanizes her. Hell, it would humanize a god with how stunning Maura is. It really isn't fair; she could wear a tall tee and crocs and still look like the cover of a fashion magazine.

She hasn't seen me yet. Actually, she has no idea I'm here. So, for a moment, I get to admire her without her turning away and blushing from the attention. I get to see her shine the way poets say the stars do, the way only she can. She is always the first thing I look for when I enter a room. She is the only thing worth seeing.

Constance simply watches me grin wildly at every little movement Maura makes. She is looking at me as if she knows what I'm thinking, which I am oddly grateful for. I'm glad someone does because I sure as hell don't.

Then she sees me, her face lights up brighter than Fenway at night. Her eyes lock with mine and I'm not sure how I'm still standing, or breathing, or thinking. Her smile beams, chaining me in place as she moves gracefully across the room. I want to run, to turn around and sprint to the Dirty Robber and drink until I feel like me again, but she is heading my way so I just stand still looking like a piece of artwork gone wrong.

"Jane," she exclaims, wrapping her arms around me. She squeezes a little too hard, which leaves me no doubt that she smells a little too good and I like it all a little too much. And it feels different. Perhaps because of the thoughts stampeding through my head like wildebeests but it's different nonetheless. Her hair smells sweeter. Her hands are tenderer. Her presence is all the more intoxicating.

All she's done is say my name and I can already tell it's going to be a long night.

"You're here!"

"Looks like it. Is this alright," I ask, gesturing to my dress.

"You look beautiful." She widens that damn smile of hers. She does this on purpose. She knows I can't handle how sweet it is, how genuinely innocent it is, but she does it all the time. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

I open my mouth to respond, but the answer sticks in my throat. It is pathetically obvious that I am not prepared for this and as if she knew I'd mess up at some point, Constance makes her way to us. Times like these I can make a case for loving the woman.

"Jane! So nice to see you again."

"Yes. Always a pleasure," I stammer, thankful beyond belief that Maura is clueless when it comes to social mannerisms and that her mother is not. We exchange a glance: she knows that I know that she is well aware of my intentions. Though, I suppose when it comes to Maura and how I feel about her, I've always been transparent. Why else would I ask for her personal invitation to a party I had no business attending?

"Maura, dear, would you mind getting us another drink? I would love to catch up with Jane."

At first Maura is upset by the request and I have to admit I am to an extent, but I need a moment to compose myself, which of course Constance knows. Maura grins hesitantly, her grip on my waist tight and unwavering. She lets her hand linger on my back as she says something to Constance. I can't hear her though. I can't hear anything. A train could be headed for me, horn sounding and I would completely unaware. My thoughts are muddled. My breath is labored.

She holds on to my arm as long as she can but eventually she lets go. I watch her walk away and as she becomes lost in the sea of people, I breathe a sigh loud enough to wake the dead and Constance laughs softly at me. She's laughing at me like this is a joke and I'm the punch line. The small amount of courage I have deflates before me like Korsak's bank account at a pastry shop.

"It's perfectly natural to be nervous," she says as though that's somehow supposed to help me. Why do people think saying something is natural for everyone else is going to help me calm down? Try telling a woman in labor, "This pain is perfectly natural," and see what she says. I can guarantee it won't be, "Oh, I hadn't thought of that. This hurts less now." No! She's going to grab the closest person and start swinging fists like she's Rocky in the final seconds of the last round.

I don't voice this, though it is difficult, because Maura would be devastated. So I swallow my words with a sip of champagne as Constance continues to 'help'

"You know, when her father asked me to marry him, he could hardly formulate a complete thought. I'm fairly certain the actual question lacked noun-verb agreement."

"Those pesky nouns-verbs," I nod as her mind wanders back, fondly remembering the moment. "I just hate it when they disagree."

"The gesture was very sweet. That was my point" she presses as she eyes me with affectionate annoyance and since I am about as sweet as a jalapeño, her connection makes complete sense.

"Thank you," I smirk. "I feel much better now."

I'm lying, of course, and she knows, but we both smile into our glasses. There is no way she could understand what I'm up against. She was asked. I'm _asking_. It's tricky and delicate and I'm simple and clumsy.

We stand in a comfortable silence and I take the last sip of my drink wondering why it always takes Maura ten times longer to do something than a normal person. I could have brewed my own case of beer in the time it takes her to go across a room and pick up pre-poured champagne flutes.

I scan the room and find her a few yards from the bar stuck in a conversation with a man and his wife, clearly trying to get away, though she's much too proper to tell them as much.

"Now would be an excellent time," Constance muses, her eyes bearing into me. I don't look away from Maura, but I don't have to. She can see me squirming in my already uncomfortable heels and my fidgeting fingers. I don't have to tell her; she knows I'm not ready. She walks to my side and places her hand reassuringly on my shoulder. "One is never ready. One merely bucks up the courage and does it."

And with a soft shove, I'm making my way across the room against my better judgment, my steps an accurate representation of how fast my heart is beating.

I weave through the crowd, smiling politely as I squeeze through couples chatting about places I've never been and things I've never seen. And if I wasn't nervous enough now I feel more like a guppy in the sand because I realize that I have to find some non-tongue-tied way of joining whatever conversation Maura is having. Unless the old man owns the Red Sox I can't see us having much to talk about. I should have stayed where I was and waited until this thing was over like I planned and ever step forward is making that more obvious.

She hadn't seen my yet so I decide to flee back to Constance. I turn and directly behind me is a man carrying a tray and I'm thankful I had enough awareness to stop just short of ramming into him. I do not want to know how much the champagne he is holding is worth and I would feel bad for wasting perfectly good alcohol. So, I smile, take a glass from his tray.

"Thank you," I say quietly before moving to my right to continue my frantic retreat, but his step matches mine and we collide.

My clutch meets the floor violently, the champagne flute follows close behind and the sound of glass shattering gains the undivided attention of everyone in Massachusetts. But all of that is sunshine and glitter compared to what I see.

The ring.

It's on the floor.

The ring is on the floor: vulnerable and exposed, just like I feel. I hear "aw" and "how sweet" and "oh, honey, look." This is a DEFCON 1 situation and everyone is looking at it like it's a lost puppy. I would rather be walking naked through the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. That is how not okay this is.

"Jane," Maura breaths. I turn around to see her eyes glued on me. "What is that?"

The whole room has stopped and is staring at Maura and me and the ring and she's asking what it was. She knows damn well what it is.

"That," I begin, pointing at it and then touching my chin, trying to speak words but the only audible sounds I can make were "uh" and "hmm" and "um". I can't blow this off. I can't simply say, "Oh, that? That's just a ring I carry with me 'cause it's pretty." That's not how it works and everyone knew it.

"That is a great question," I finally manage. "And I would love to answer it: outside."

I try subtly pointing to the door, but she doesn't move. I grin awkwardly before motioning with gusto to my left but she simply stares at me and I give up being proper.

"Let's go," I say as I close the distance between us.

"Jane…"

"Now. To the door." I'm scrambling to lead Maura out, grab the ring, and not look at a single person in the process. At this point there aren't many other ways I can mess this up.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and look to find Constance Isles reaching over me to pick up the ring calmly in a way on an Isles woman can. Have I mentioned the strong possibility that I love this woman? I also might hate her because this is largely her fault, but there isn't time to decide which because Maura has stopped moving and I'm still the center of everyone's attention.

"Breathe," she says as she places the ring in my hands. I thank her, but abruptly jump up and continue to escort Maura out.

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"Jane, what is going on," she asks as we reach the other side of the door and I close it. She's not frustrated. She's confused, which is understandable. I would be too. Hell, I am, but she's not running away which tells me I shouldn't either. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn to face her.

"Okay, here's the thing," I begin. "I need you to let me get it out before you respond. Okay?"

She nods impatiently and I swallow hard. This is happening. It's happening right now and I am freaking out.

"I love you," I choke out. She knows that of course, but it is the best starting place I can find. It's always been my starting point; loving her is where everything begins and ends for me. I take both of her hands in mine, toying with the ring, truly realizing for the first time since I bought it what it means. It means forever with my best friend and, though I am certain my heart is moments away from both collapsing on itself and exploding, that gives me the strength to continue.

"I wanted to do this later, you know with less people around but, well, here we are. Did you know people actually practice this stuff? I definitely thought that was a myth until I actually tried thinking of a way to do this" I begin clumsily. Apparently strength does not equal articulate. "I wanted this to be perfect. Or at least better than this," I think out loud, though I know I'm only making it worse. _Jesus Christ, Rizzoli_, I silently scream, _just ask the damn question. Will you marry me? Four words Say it._

"Will you wear this?" I blurt out, bringing the ring up to eye level and I know that, sadly, it could have actually gone worse. Thankfully she hasn't answered so I try to salvage at least a semblance of romance. "I want you. I want a life with you. I want you to put this on and never take it off."

She looks at me and then the ring and then at me again. Confusion covers her face as she points at it. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"God, I hope so," I reply quickly.

"I've never been asked that before."

"Yes. I'm aware," I say though my face admits that it was less than the answer I had hoped for. "But like all questions, this one would like an answer."

"Rhetorical questions by definition don't require answers," she says as looks around the hallway, mouthing things like _red carpet_, _ivy walls_, _four lamps_, _mahogany door_. She moves her eyes to my dress commenting on the shade of blue and the length and the style.

"What are you doing?" I ask frantically because on a normal day I can read her, see past her quirks and into whatever it is she means. But it's not a normal day and I can't and I don't like it.

"I'm never going to have this experience again. I'd like to remember everything about it."

"Maura, I will ask you every day if you..." I pause, her words registering in my head. "Is that a yes?"

"Of course it is," she said with a smile, before returning to naming her garments, but I don't have time for her to remember the thread count of her blouse. She said yes and I'm getting married. I take her face in my hands and kiss her forcefully.

And that, simply holding her close to me, knowing she is as much mine as I am hers, is the closest to normal I've felt since I arrived. The people in the other room are no longer a concern. How could they be when the woman of my dreams is now my permanent reality? The embarrassment of how we came to be in the hallway melts away. How can that matter when I get to proudly show the world that Maura Isles for some reason chose me? If I'm being honest with myself, the only thing that is less than ideal about this flawlessly imperfect situation is this god-forsaken dress I still have on, but I have a feeling she can help me with that, too.


End file.
